


When Hell Freezes Over

by apparition



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Adorable But Deadly, Adventure, Amnesiac Lucifer, Chloe Decker Finds Out, Cruel & Unusual Puns, Demons, F/M, Fantasy, Hell Has GPS, Huddling For Warmth, Humour, Hypothermia, Lucifer Does Not Like The Cold, My Own Brand Of Extended Mythology, The Title Is Quite Literal As You Can See
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-01-15 10:17:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18496882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apparition/pseuds/apparition
Summary: “Mazey. Slight malfunction. Demons loose. Need backup. Left the gate open for you.”Chloe played the strange message again, cupping her hand around her phone to hear it more clearly.She frowned. It still made no sense. Clearly he’d hit her number by mistake, and judging by the slightly frantic, out-of-breath delivery, Lucifer was in trouble.





	1. The Message

**Author's Note:**

> This begun as a fun and silly adventure fic to work on between other things, (really it's an excuse to write about Chloe warming up the devil) but currently seems to be morphing into more than that. Ten chapters planned, we'll see how that goes. I may need to up the rating in later chapters (oooh). 
> 
> Set vaguely around S2E04. For reference, Mum has arrived, and this is pre Linda-finds-out. Canon-divergent from then on.

“ _Mazey. Slight malfunction. Demons loose. Need backup. Left the gate open for you._ ”

Chloe played the strange message again, cupping her hand around her phone to hear it more clearly.

She frowned. It still made no sense. Clearly he’d hit her number by mistake, and judging by the slightly frantic, out-of-breath delivery, Lucifer was in trouble.

And she’d run out of people to call for help. Earlier, she’d managed to reach Maze for fifteen precious seconds, before the bartender cut her line of questioning off.

“ _Decker, I’m on holiday. South of the border. Don’t know. Don’t care._ ”

Chloe had tried to sound patient, knowing Maze didn’t like to be pushed. “Look, can you at least call his brother? Amena-”

There was a scoff on the other end. “ _Yeahh. He’s not very communicative right now. No idea what he’s up to. Broody non-angel stuff, I guess._ ”

“Maze-”

“ _Decker. If Lucifer called you, he called you. Go pick him up or whatever. I need a break from the both of them.”_

Pick up Lucifer? What was he, a school kid? Maze was so frustrating. Chloe tried to insert some sense into the conversation, but too late, she realised it had never actually been one. The whole thing reeked of the artful cunning her daughter showed when trying to avoid bedtime. Just how much time were those two spending together?

Maze’s voice trailed off, her attention clearly focused on something else. “ _Hey, right here._ ” There was a clink in the background of the call, amidst the sounds of distant yelling. “ _Alright, my drinks arrived, and the fight’s about to start. Good talk._ ”

The call disconnected.

Chloe pulled the phone down from her ear, staring at the screen. Behind her, the busy precinct carried on as usual, flowing around where she stood. She’d thought Maze was Lucifer’s friend, or something along those lines, but clearly she’d misjudged that relationship. Or, more likely, Lucifer had.  

She looked up, across the room, skipping over desks and empty coffee mugs. Who else was there? Dan was a bad idea. He’d just tell her to ignore the message and let Lucifer take care of himself. As if either of those men were ever capable of that.

Then there was Ella. Who would be glad to help, of course, but was still new to their department. The whole dynamic Chloe had with Lucifer was unusual, to say the least, and she wasn't sure how to explain that she'd lost track of her partner without looking totally incompetent. Especially if Ella heard that crazy message about the demons.

Chloe sighed, cursing the distinct lack of qualified people on-hand to translate Lucifer’s weirdness. With Maze off God-knows-where, and Amenadiel doing God-knows-what, she was at a loss. Anyone else would just tell her to drop it and wait for him to return, but after what Lucifer had done for her and Trixie, well. He might be a high-functioning lunatic, but he was _her_ high-functioning lunatic.

 _Demons._ Seriously. The man never stopped.

She’d called his therapist already, knowing how close they were - but Linda hadn’t seen him in several days. He’d missed his weekly appointment, with no explanation.

Which had them both on high alert - Linda knew as well as she did that it was highly out of character for Lucifer to not honour an agreed-upon meeting time. After Chloe had recited the strange message, having learnt it off by heart, Linda had pointed out that it was also unlike Lucifer to actually _ask_ for help, and whatever this ‘demon’ metaphor was referring to, it had him worried. Which had _Chloe_ worried.

She was still recovering from the whole ordeal with Malcolm, and she knew Lucifer was shaken by it too, despite the brave face he’d put on. However he’d managed to hide it, she knew he’d been wounded in that standoff. As ridiculous as it sounded, she’d decided that flask he always carried had saved his life, deflecting most of Malcolm’s shot. But not all of it.

It was a miracle he’d survived.

All that blood. There’d been so much blood.  He easily could have died. He _should_ have died.

Part of her was sure he actually had, for a moment.

You didn’t just get over something like that, as Chloe knew all too well.

But he never showed it. He was completely unflappable, grinning as he walked into the sights of a gun.

The way he’d sounded, leaving that message, though. She’d never heard him sound like that before. If she didn't know better she'd have thought he sounded... _scared_?

Couldn’t be. She was misreading it, for sure. Besides, it hadn’t even been for her ears.

But he did sound scared. As much as she tried to ignore it, that thought lay coiled like a snake in the pit of her belly, heavy and tight.

Normally she’d have brushed it off, and waited for him to turn up from whatever bender he’d gone off on, while she studiously didn’t ask any questions. But that missed appointment, combined with the disturbing fact that his last known position on her tracker app was the rear alley of a dive bar he wouldn’t be caught dead frequenting - that was not good. It was not good at all. Particularly considering said dive bar, the _Rusty Rooster,_ was ground zero for their latest case.

She’d last seen him after the first body had dropped - the victim being the balding, tobacco-stained bar owner himself, a disturbingly neat hole where his guts used to be. While Lucifer had been quite vocal in his disparagement of the man’s dingy establishment, he’d taken the murder very personally, convinced someone was sending him a message.

“What do you think, Detective? ‘No guts no glory?’ Or something more straightforward.” Her partner’s eyes lit up in pure glee. “Somebody ‘hates my guts!’ Or is it a suggestion I’m working too hard? Wouldn’t want to bust a-”

She glared at him.

“Really Detective? Because I’m right, I know it. You could say, I’ve got a _gut feeling_.”

He made his own way home that day.

But when the next two victims turned up, mere blocks away, both also owners of various, albeit mediocre clubs, and both unfortunately gutless, she’d started to wonder if he was onto something. This strip of downtown L.A. was not known for being particularly murder-free, but all three victims had been in the business of providing morally dubious late night entertainment. As much as he was in a class of his own in the L.A. club scene, Lucifer  _was_ within that category.

Strangely, he’d had a complete change of heart, telling her over the phone that it was nothing to worry about, and that he was ‘ _popping off downstairs for a bit to do some housekeeping.’_

Which also made no sense. As she stood in his empty penthouse, casting her eyes over the perfectly tidy space, she was hard-pressed to think of a time she’d ever seen it, or the club, in any need of cleaning.

And downstairs, Lux had been similarly empty, the quiet darkness of the club at odds with the wild chaos she was used to, even at this time of day. There should have at least been a few regulars dancing in the darker corners, or at the bar, sipping ‘recovery’ cocktails. The guy at the door had let her in of course, knowing her well, but she’d crossed the club floor mystified by the lack of people inside. None of the staff were around either, and when she'd gone back to question the doorman he'd just shrugged and said _the boss had to_ _take care of a few loose ends._

The guy's thick Brooklyn-Italian accent hadn't helped make that sound any less like a line from _The Sopranos._

Maybe with Maze away, Lucifer had been forced to temporarily close the place. Maybe he was out hiring new staff. That was why the app had him at that awful bar.

Chloe rolled her eyes at herself. Sure. He was out scouting dive bars for new talent.

That was definitely _not_ the case.

Gazing out from across his balcony, Chloe felt like she could see the whole city. She knew he was out there. That app was too accurate. This time tomorrow, he'd probably be teasing her about how worried she'd been.

He _was_ her partner though. She was _supposed_ to keep track of him. That was it. That was all this was.

Professional courtesy.

It definitely, couldn't be more than that.

She tapped Lucifer’s number again, holding the phone up to her ear. Almost immediately, a robotic voice informed her the number she was dialing was currently out of Verizon’s service area. She ended the call, sick of hearing the same message.

Not switched off. Not busy. _Out of range._

Had he left the country? He’d had plenty to say about his mother recently. Was there a family emergency? A flight to England?

Or, he’d gone charging in to deal with what was quite clearly a serial killer, and gotten himself kidnapped. Or he was-

He was probably in England. And completely fine. The ‘demons’ were probably some relative’s detested children, and he wanted Maze to come attend whatever gigantic Edwardian manor they’d all holed up in. It made perfect sense.

She fleshed out the fantasy as she drove downtown, inventing elaborate chandeliers, Harry Potter stairs. His dad became one of those fancy British lords, with tophat and tracts of land. Driving a vintage racecar. Maybe a few of those scruffy Scottie dogs.

No, wait. That was Monopoly.  

Lucifer, surrounded by old-world decadence and the English countryside. Breaking into castle cellars and raiding the centuries-old wine. Eating that clotted cream stuff. Complaining about the weather.

It was cold over there wasn’t it? In January, it could even be snowing.

She hoped he was warm enough.

On the seat next to her, her phone lay where she could clearly see the screen, the tracking app open. The blinking red dot remained doggedly behind that dive bar.


	2. The Lever

Very far away, under at least thirteen thousand layers of brimstone insulation, Lucifer struggled to shift a lever.

The damn thing was stuck.

He hadn't built it to get _stuck_.

Alright, he hadn't ordered _Archimedes_ to build it, only to have it fail when it was needed most, but he wasn't about to interrupt the guy’s hell loop and admit he had no idea how the whole thing even worked.

Privately, Lucifer wasn’t sure the guy even belonged in hell, but who was he to look a gift-horse in the mouth? A genius was a genius, and Hell had needed some upgrades, after all.

But this was ridiculous. He stood back, staring at the protruding length of hell-forged iron. The lever seemed simple enough, about the length of his forearm and attached to a nondescript metal box. Flipping it should have reset the system. In theory, he could even reverse its usual function. And yet.

It wouldn’t budge. 

A series of thick, well-insulated pipes led upwards from where the device was mounted in the centre of the cavern, the reassuring sound of channelled Hellfire gurgling through them. They gave off a faint red glow, the heat within visibly evident. Emerging from the fiery pits just below this level, those pipes were steadily pumping the stuff ever upwards, reaching through every layer of the Underworld - a truly remarkable feat of engineering that had brought delicious warmth to the otherwise-frigid kingdom he’d been forced to manage.

After all, nobody had said he couldn’t make a few changes. Being sent somewhere dark and cold by his Dad was adding insult to injury, and no accident, either - Lucifer thrived in the heat, and in the light.

The Underworld had no proper source of the latter. On his arrival, the place had been lit by nothing but that Hellfire; a raging line of red against the black emptiness. Nothing like the heavenly brilliance he’d been created to bring about.  

Heat was a different matter. There was certainly a source of _that_. Though he tried not to dwell on it, the memory of the fiery expanse that had broken his fall from above was still strong enough for him to feel the burn. He recalled the anger he’d felt. The betrayal. And to top it off, his own element used against him. Straight into that deep pit, into that molten river.

Dad had always loved his symbolism, the manipulative bastard.

The fire had eaten away at all that Lucifer was, the fury that he held over his Dad’s rejection all that kept him afloat as he was swept along the long river. He’d climbed out of it transformed, stumbling into the freezing dark, stripped of every layer that had made him the Lightbringer.

Shivering, with only the heat of his burns to sustain him as he climbed upwards, he’d found a cold land of shadows, empty things that shrank away from the monster he had become, that deep river of fire the only bright thing in the vast, lonely realm. And the further he went from the river of fire, the blacker those shadows became. In the natural darkness of the place, it had been nigh on impossible to navigate.

So Lucifer had tried to bring about divine light the way he had while in Heaven, but he could feel that part of himself growing weaker, cut off from the source as he was. He barely had enough spark left to illuminate his hand in front of his face, let alone create another sun, and that remnant was fast draining away. In the end he’d made enough light to see by, a feeble blue glow infused into the air of the realm itself, and left it at that.

But the further upwards he explored, the colder it got. 

Still full of anger, he’d returned to those depths, and plunged his hands back into that fierce heat. From it, he’d forged all sorts of things. Some of which he regretted, but then, it wasn’t like Dad had bothered to give him any tips on how to create life. At the very least, the Hellforged creatures filled the empty spaces, and were eager enough to guide the fallen human souls on their way as they came in ever-increasing numbers, drawn downwards by the weight of their guilt.

Lucifer had generally stuck to those lower, warmer levels in the eons since, where the fire burned fiercest and his creations were happiest, but Archimedes had changed all of that.  

Central heating. Truly, a new age in Hell. His demons had loved it, roaming the upper reaches where the frozen wastes were thawing, newly formed rivers wending their way along banks that were blooming in the dark, steady heat. And it had worked beautifully, for all these centuries.

Until the moment he’d needed to turn it _off._

Drawing out his pocket square, he wiped a thin film of sweat off his face. It was stupidly hot down here, even for _him._ Briefly he considered removing his jacket.

No. This sort of manual labour was bad enough. He was not going to _dress down_ to top it off.

In the distance, echoing along the long, cavernous tunnels, the howl of something bored and hungry sounded, drawing closer. Several hundred bored somethings, in fact.

Great. He didn’t have much time. Why had he made their teeth so sharp?

It was possible that pure anger - though well-justified - was not an ideal head space for creation.

He resumed his inspection of the infernal device, finally bothering to look at the intricate carvings across its surface. The flickering light cast by the ever-present pools of Hellfire scattered across the cavern floor made for a frustrating viewing experience - as useful as it was, illumination was not its strong suit. He swatted a hand through the air, drawing a small amount of floating blue motes of light inwards, to hover over the box. It was just enough to make out angles, curves, whorls, symbols, yes, but what did they _mean?_ None of it made sense.

Tongues were one thing, part of his inborn repertoire, but human writing was another. It actually _was_ all Greek to him.

The snicker that thought prompted bounced around the expansive walls, but as it was swallowed by the low roar of the fiery river below he was struck by a pang of sadness. Hell had always been so lonely.

Maybe it was worth pulling old Archimedes out just so someone could hear that glorious pun. Although, it probably wasn't as funny in actual ancient Greek.

He tried to think back to when he’d had it installed. There were _how_ many circles? The explanation had been so long-winded, full of fancy numbers and boring theological assumptions. He’d mostly tuned it out.

Maybe he should have had Maze write it down. In Aramaic, or something equally sensible.

From somewhere above, a bead of water dripped directly onto the back of his head. He shook it off in disgust, glancing up to where long, red stalactites hung from the cavern ceiling. A second set of pipes arched past their stony spikes, their smaller dull copper lengths barely visible against the gloom. He focused on the tip of one of the larger stalactites, trying to find the source of the drip. They’d certainly grown since he’d last been here, so long ago. In fact, he couldn’t even remember when that even was-

Wait, why was he here again? He dropped his gaze back to the uneven stone floor, to stare off into a nearby fiery pit, trying to remember why he’d walked into this particular cavern. Wasn’t this the control room for-

Yet another chorus of howls started up, jolting him back to the task at hand. Right. The demons. He had to deal with the demons.

The moment he’d seen that neat hole they’d chewed in that pathetic excuse for a proprietor, he’d had his suspicions. After all, what on Earth did that?

Nothing on Earth, at all.

He hadn’t been sure until the other bodies turned up though, so close to the same spot, all equally feasted upon. Clearly allowing the creatures to freely roam the upper reaches had been a mistake. However they’d done it, they’d escaped, likely through one of the thin places where the realms blended. Their choice of prey was odd - they generally preferred the dead over the living - but their handiwork was far too distinctive to be mistaken.

When he’d returned to the scene, it had taken moments to find the crude gateway that had been forced into existence, connecting the Earth with the Underworld. It had simply been a small, uneven hole ripped through the fabric of reality, about the size of a rabbit burrow - but it was a way out.

He had no idea how they’d done it, and it was almost certainly dangerous to use - but they’d done it. They were clever, the menaces.

It would have been a simple matter to close it up, but he suspected that whatever had led those little shadows out foraging in the first place would not be so easily solved. It seemed pretty clear that they weren’t happy with his new choice of home, and they seemed determined to demonstrate exactly _how_ unhappy.

The idea of the vicious little things coming after him wasn’t so worrying. But the thought that they’d be lingering around that crime scene, hunting exactly where the Detective was detecting, no.

That could not be permitted.

So, here he was, hoping to shut down the one thing that let them thrive higher up, in the places where Hell and the Earth could be crossed over. They'd all be forced down, towards the warmth of the pits, where they couldn't do any harm.

He probably should have done this earlier, when he’d found Mum’s cell empty, but then, he’d been _busy._

Another drip caught him square on the nose, the splash of red momentarily stunning him. He wiped it away with an irritated huff, regathering his thoughts. No doubt the stuff had already stained his jacket. As if it wasn’t deadly enough.

Hell was _leaking_. Recycled Lethe-water. Lovely. He’d have to fix that too.

It was very distracting. He sidestepped the leaky spot, not wanting to add induced forgetfulness to his list of pressing issues. The next few drops landed directly on the stone, condensing into steam.

What, exactly, would happen if one of those pipes failed? He’d never thought about that before. Mixing the icy river Lethe with the fires of Hell was probably not as fun as it sounded in his head.

Focusing on the steady rumble of the fiery river below his feet, Lucifer set his stance wide, hands firm on the stupid lever, and pulled down, as hard as he could. Slick with condensation, it slipped out of his grip, sending him stumbling backwards to land in an undignified heap.

The rough shale floor was not in the least bit welcoming, though it was delightfully warm. Why had he never put a sauna in down here? Bit of carving from some of the hell-bound Egyptians, some Viking ingenuity, it could have been wonderful.

Why bother though, when he had Earth? He already missed the feel of that warm sun, the closest he would ever come now to his greatest creation.

A long, piteous howl drifted along the subterranean ways, echoing along the walls. Lucifer looked behind him, slightly self-conscious. Had that stumble been loud? It was good nobody had seen that.

“Would you _be quiet,”_ he yelled, in the direction of the cavern entrance.  

The howling stopped, briefly, before resuming once more, but far more politely.

“Oh, come on,” he complained, “give it a-”

Three short, sharp knocks sounded, drifting down through the layers of brimstone from very far away.

 _Very_ far away.

Earth, even?

The howling had stilled, drawn into the same tense quiet that Lucifer had adopted. He cocked his head and listened, but heard nothing further, beyond the soft gurgling of the subterranean pipes overhead.

Was that the gate?

He’d slightly improved the hole the demons had made through the fabric of reality, making it large enough for him to enter. Not to mention leaving a way out, to make sure of his return - after all, he didn’t have his wings. The gateway he'd crafted would hold the demons back while he worked, but would also permit him to exit when he was done.

Lucifer was rather proud of it actually. It was no small feat to stabilise a passageway to Earth, and he’d blended it in so nicely. Still, it certainly wouldn’t be visible to any of the humans.

But who would bother _knocking_ on the gates of Hell? Mum?

Certainly not Maze. She'd walk right in, familiar with the price of entry. He could only hope she'd received his message. He'd only had moments to duck back through the gate to warn her, the hordes hot on his heels.

She wouldn't have any trouble with them, even in their current frenzy. She was of the Lilim, and their fear of her would keep them in check.

It was slightly insulting that they didn't take him as seriously, lesser demons that they were, even when he'd worn his devil face. They just kept on coming, the tiresome creatures. He'd barely made it all the way down here without being shredded by their many little claws.

They’d been easy to mould, right back at the start, when he’d pulled their shapes out of the darkness and infused them with Hellfire, but they certainly hadn’t been easy to keep. He’d given up trying to get them to behave, instead relying on the higher demons to corral them.

But the rest of the Lilim were nowhere to be seen. Lucifer assumed they were all off torturing sinners. They generally took care of all that on their own and didn't bother him with the details.

That may have been an error. It would have been marvellous to have the entire cohort of Lilith's children lending a hand right at this moment.

Lucifer sat up, dusting off his trousers. They were slightly singed from their time in contact with the floor, which was truly tragic. Maybe Maze would think to bring him a fresh suit. She was always good with the important things.

Either way, he had to figure out how to calm things down, get things back into place. The lesser demons had gone positively _feral_ in his absence, and something had to be done. Clearly Amenadiel wasn't up to the job, and there was no way Lucifer was going to let any more of his creatures escape. The thought of one of them harming the Detective made him sick.

And that lever was going to _shift_ , or he'd have a fun time melting it back into the hellfire from which it was forged.

Well, assuming he made it out of here alive.

There was a scuttling, scratching sound from high above, made far louder by the shape of the ceiling. Lucifer cocked an ear, trying to trace it. The rasp of claws on copper was very distinctive. One of them was climbing down.

Even better. They’d be on him in moments. If they’d figured out a shortcut into this chamber, and they cottoned-on to what he was doing, he doubted he’d have a chance to plead his case. They loved the heat too much to allow him to take it away.

That did it. He neatly slipped his shoulders out of his jacket, and unbuttoned his sweat-drenched shirt. Sacrifices had to be made. Lucifer wrapped the fine fabric around the end of the lever, giving his hands something to work with.

It seemed solid enough. Putting his back into it, Lucifer _pulled._ The muscles on his forearms bunched with effort, as he threw every ounce of his supernatural strength into making it move.

It still wasn’t shifting. And this was exhausting.

“You _absolute_ bastard,” he raged at the offensive length of metal. Breathing heavily, he slumped forward against it, needing a break.

With a smooth click, the lever slid upwards a notch, locking into place. From the pipes above, there was a deafening clank.

Lucifer only had a moment to process why that was not a good thing before the ceiling began to rain, a red, bloody torrent that washed the thought away, as if it had never been.  


	3. The Door

Chloe squinted, trying to determine how she'd missed it.

There was a door in the wall.

There was a door where there had not been a door before.

Maybe the light had been different, when she’d been here last week canvassing the scene. Or maybe there’d been something blocking it. There had to be an explanation.

She looked back towards the street where she’d parked her cruiser. Had they come in another way last time?

It was unlikely. The alley only had one entrance.

Chloe paced up along the back walls of the bar, mentally comparing the crumbling brickwork with her memory from the few days prior. Stacks of empty glass bottles in crates, collapsed bits of cardboard. That was all familiar. Further along, there was the entrance to the _Rusty Rooster’s_ kitchen, a solid looking metal construct with thick bar, modern and impervious. That steel door was far too strong to be forced open, plus they’d already established that it had been locked at the time of the murders. There was no getting out or getting in that way. And there were no other exits.

But now, set into the brick wall like it was even older than the rundown bar itself, was a simple, wooden door. Its once-white lacquer dyed beige by the weather, the wood had split at the edges, bearing deep fissures that were clearly signs of long-term water damage.

This door had been there for years.

She was losing her mind.

Although, more practically, it gave her somewhere to look. There was no sign of Lucifer or his phone anywhere outside, and she knew how accurate that tracking app was. Accurate down to the last yard or two.

She held her phone up, and zoomed into the map with her fingers. The red dot was directly on the spot she was standing. It was directly on the door.

Which made opening it her next priority. That was unfortunate, because it was currently missing a handle. She'd already tried poking her fingers in the empty space where a knob would have been, to no avail. She couldn't feel _anything_ in there, not even the mechanism.

There was no keyhole either. Strange, for a door that led outside. Surely it was a security risk? Maybe that was why the owner had removed the handle.

Well, handle or no, there was one thing she could at least try. Forming her hand into a fist, she rapped it smartly against the door, three times, and stood back.

The old wood seemed to absorb the sound of her knocking, the muffled thudding far quieter than she’d hoped. Still, if there was anyone on the other side, they would have heard. Lucifer’s influence had her bending the rules more often than not, but this was private property. Though, she was fairly sure nobody would answer. The bar had been closed since the owner’s death - the place should be empty.

It didn't _feel_ empty though. The sensation of being watched was making the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She waited a moment, straining her ears for movement from within.  

There was no answer.

“Damn,” she muttered, running her fingers along the flaking panels. They felt hot against her palm, like the door had been soaking up the sun, but the alley was too well shaded for that. It was not exactly a warm day, either. Where was that heat coming from? Some kind of boiler room?

A boiler room was exactly where you’d keep a kidnapped victim.

Her breath caught. She’d been trying not to think like that.

She continued to test the strength of the wood, running her fingers around its edge, where it fit snug into the brickwork. There was the slightest gap between, and she could maybe-

“Ow,” she gasped, drawing her hand back. The end of her index finger throbbed, an unbelievably sharp stab right at the tip demanding her attention right where a huge splinter had embedded itself. She pulled it out, feeling like an idiot as a bright bead of blood formed on her fingertip. What had she been expecting?

There had to be a better way through that door.

Chloe turned back to look past where the police tape stretched. It was undisturbed, Ella’s neat flags marking the spots on the ground they’d found traces of material.

Of human material. Guts. It was where they’d found bits of the bar owner’s guts, reduced to small red gobs. Very small gobs.

They were still working on a theory for where the _rest of it_ had gone. Even for her, this case was gruesome. It was very, very clear that those victims had been alive during the… process.

She shuddered, dispelling the mental image. That wasn’t helping.

Forcing her eyes away from those little yellow flags, she looked back at the door. If she could just wedge something in that gap, something strong, it might give. Maybe where the wood was peeling along the bottom-

Chloe froze, staring at what was lying underneath the door, right at her feet. In plain sight.

The door handle.

The nervous laugh she let out broke through the quiet background hum of the city, startling her with its loudness. She cut herself off, not wanting to sound as crazy as she felt.

Maybe she was coming down with something. Or Lucifer’s absence was distracting her more than she’d realised. It was highly unsettling. She had a reputation for noticing things that others didn’t; it was what made her a good detective. There was no way she hadn’t noticed the white-painted knob, the long screw at its end clearly designed to fit into the hole in the door.

Picking the thing up, she frowned. There were traces of blood on the end with the screw. Fresh blood too.

She jammed the thing into its place in the door, not wanting to waste any time. Whatever was going on here, someone was hurt.

The handle screwed in easily, catching on an invisible thread. She had it fully replaced in moments, the click of the mechanism sliding free an enormous relief.

As she swung the door open though, and stared into the pure darkness beyond, that sense of danger returned once more. She couldn’t even see how far back the room went - with her eyes adjusted to the outside sunlight, it was impossible to make out anything inside at all.  

Her stomach lurched as she peered inside, the odd tilt of the step making her stumble. She rested a hand on the doorframe, blinking away the strange feeling. It was a little like stepping onto a motionless escalator - an unexpected, sudden realignment of the direction of the floor.

With her free hand, she tapped the light on her phone, illuminating the rough cut black stone in front of her. Basalt, maybe? Weird. There were deep gouges along it, like somebody had been trying to widen the space beneath the door - though Chloe was at a loss to describe what sort of machine left marks like that in hard stone. Shining the light up and around revealed some sort of corridor, looking far more like it had been shaved out of a cliff face, than constructed in the basement of a run-down bar.

Probably fake, like those stone columns Lucifer had in his penthouse. Unfortunately the light on her phone didn’t reach to the end. How on earth did this fit underneath that bar? Was it some kind of prohibition-era thing? A secret tunnel?

Chloe was definitely taking a look.

Focusing the light from her phone, she marked out a foot-sized place on the floor, between two of those deep gouges. The last thing she needed was to break an ankle exploring private property. Even in his absence, Lucifer had her, quite literally, treading the fine line between bravery and stupidity.

This was different though - she was circumspect. Methodical.

Taking a breath, she stepped up, over the threshold. Very carefully. She wouldn’t be caught off-guard.

Chloe had an entire half-second to regret that line of thinking as her foot missed its mark, slipping out from underneath her. Her strangled, surprised yell was cut off as a rushing, sucking blackness pulled her forwards, and _down_ , hurtling through into that dark stone corridor.

This time, the lurch in her stomach was a tight fist of instinctive fear, as all sense of direction was stripped away. Her hands were flung out, the phone dropped in surprise, as she tumbled towards the ground.

But there was no ground.

She was falling, hands scrabbling for something to hold onto - but the strange doorway had vanished, lost in the roar of black air that screamed past her ears. Falling downwards, downwards, tensed for an inevitable impact, the stone walls streaming past, far too close and far too fast.

She fell for a very long time.

And then there was only dark.


	4. The River

Water. Definitely water. Or was it? He looked down, and tried to remember.

_Red._

_Black._

_Dark._

He wasn’t supposed to be in the water. Was he?

Those were shoes too, nice ones. Made by a lovely Italian man, paid for with a wide smile and a delicious evening on a rooftop in Milan. _Shoes_. Submersed. The gentle flow of red lapping over an ankle, getting into fine wool socks. Ruining the cuffs on his trousers. Clinging and sticking. Water? Wet against his back, his spine, his chest. Cold too, little pinprick chills seeping into his bare flesh. Unpleasant.

Where was his shirt?

He lifted a foot out of the stream, away from the rough stone bottom, and looked at the shoe in consternation. That would not be fun to walk in.

To walk. Walk where? He was tired, out of breath - and there was nowhere dry to place his foot.

Peering up, and around, he made out the shape of the walls, and the rise of a roof overhead. He was in some sort of rounded, rough tunnel, the source of the odd, blueish illumination unclear. A strange copper pipe ran along its length a short distance above his head, dwindling off into the murky dimness in either direction.

There were no other features, apart from the water. The soft ambient light glinted off the surface of the red stream, as it flowed around his other foot, curling and lapping at the interruption to its progress. There did at least seem to be a gentle slope upwards, from which the water was flowing.

Well, this wasn’t the worst thing that had ever happened to him, though it was-

Wait. What was the worst thing?

Maybe this _was_ the worst thing. He felt like one of those brainless water birds, standing on one leg, squinting off into the distance. It was definitely undignified.

Decision made, and with an apology to that Italian man, whose name was definitely _Paolo,_ he pulled off both shoes and socks, and left them in a neat underwater pile. 

_Pablo? Pietro._

Whatever. Puccio would forgive him, especially if he did that thing with his tongue. The man had gloriously sensitive nipples after all, and it was an honour to treat them with the delicacy they deserved. New shoes were always fun, too.

Rolling up his trouser cuffs, he began to move, delicately arching his feet so that his ankles cleared the stream. Was that a bend, up ahead? Maybe a way out. To... somewhere? Where was he supposed to be going?

His bare feet quickly grew numb, the chill from the water seeping up into his legs with every step. The tunnel was growing narrower, and the water was flowing faster now, rising higher. And it was absolutely freezing.

He drew his arms tight around himself, wanting to conserve some heat, but frowned at the length of pale cream skin along his right arm.

Scratches, marring it. Long thin rakes up the inside of his wrist, in neat rows of three. One set was still bleeding where the scratches were deepest. They stung slightly when he ghosted fingertips over them.

What had happened to him?

This was definitely not his finest moment. And he was starting to think that the loss of his shirt hadn’t been for a fun reason, either. Not to mention, the backs of his trousers were… singed?

He suspected his hair was lying flat too, lank and completely unstyled. If he didn’t get out of here soon it would probably dry off into those horrific curls. The stupid things were so persistently springy.

That sealed it. This was definitely the worst thing that had ever happened to him.

Was this what a hangover was like?

If so, it was completely unfair. Why should humans be punished so harshly just for enjoying themselves a little?

Huffing in annoyance, he continued to wade forward. Upward, definitely. The way out was up. He knew that.

The way out of where, though?

Sloshing his way towards the distant bend in the tunnel, he tried to recall where exactly this was. The bulge of his cell phone was an annoying drag in his left trouser pocket, and came free after a short, frustrating struggle with a tight stretch of wet, expensive fabric.

The screen powered on, far too bright. At least the water hadn’t got into it, though making sense of the bizarre map it offered was beyond him. Downtown? What was that? Santa Monica? Such a strange name. Who was Monica? Surely not that brave young lady he’d met in the third century. And what was that about angels? Los Angeles? Seemed relevant, though what _they_ were doing _here_ was entirely inexplicable, even if they _were_ Spanish.  

Fifth layer maybe? Fourth? How deep was he? Just up ahead, that should be the main cavern of-

The main cavern of what? He stopped, frowning. The phone was only adding to his disorientation. His head felt foggy, each thought not quite completing before trailing off to spawn other tangents. It was extremely difficult to grasp and pull the vaporous strands together, connecting them into real logic.

In fact, it was vaguely like handling star matter, all the little bits of gas and plasma and dust so stubbornly hard to weave into proper incandescence. Even making the demons had been a meagre challenge compared to the eons he’d spent perfecting _that_ art.

And he was _cold_ , shivering now. It was hard to tell how long he’d been slogging ahead, or worse, how far he might have to go.

The copper pipe overhead had been joined by a second, and a third. There were small holes in the ceiling where they emerged. That was encouraging - there was _definitely_ something above.

The distance he’d covered seemed significant, but then there were no markers of progress apart from the rising water. And of course, _time was fluid here._ His lips curled with wry appreciation of the multiple levels that one worked on, but then flattened with instant regret at the lack of someone clever enough to understand how literally he meant that. Or at least, someone who could explain to him why it was funny.

The stream had risen significantly; he’d given up on keeping the ends of his trousers dry, the level now halfway up his calves. The significant chill carried along the red undercurrent had thoroughly numbed his lower half.

And his brain too, apparently.

Maybe he could call someone? Numb fingers stubbed over the screen on his phone, struggling to hit the right buttons. He needed to stop bloody shaking - dropping the thing would be highly inconvenient.

The names and numbers were strange. Someone called Linda wanted to know why he'd missed an appointment.

That wasn't good, whoever she was. He never missed appointments.

He was determined to rectify the misunderstanding, hovering his finger over the call button, when a messy splash sounded a little further back down the tunnel. Back from where he had supposedly come.

He froze. Listening intently, he made out the sound of several further splashes. Three. Four.

Six. Seven. Ten. Twelve.

Quite a lot, actually. Little splashes. And the sounds of intent paddling.

Upwards. In his direction.

It was difficult to see much, back down that way. He slipped the phone back into his pocket, suddenly highly aware of how brightly it was illuminating him in the dim tunnel. Peering towards the disturbance, he waited for his eyes to adjust. He had excellent vision, really. But it had always been hard to see properly down here.

Down here? How long had he been down here?

The gurgling water was a steadily shifting lacquer against that weird blue light, fading into a soft dissipation of deep red murk. But there were _things_ moving in it now. Steadily paddling, closer towards him.

Sharp little things. Shadows. The glint of their eyes gold and green and wicked.

Hungry. And coming for _him._

He turned and fled, splashing upwards as fast as he could. The rise of the tunnel became steep, the water frothing and cascading as it rounded that bend. There was a dull roar ahead, the penetrating crash of what had to be an enormous volume of water. Probably not ideal as a destination, really.

But those things were gaining, each time he risked glancing back. They _really_ wanted to catch up with him. The foremost one was close enough for him to see the wavering bob of its round black head, just cresting the stream. Its body pulsed through the water, a determined line of wet fur and slicked back ears.

And precise, pointed teeth. He didn’t need to see them to know they were there. Just like the clever little paws that propelled the demon forwards underwater. Soft, sheathing those needle-like claws.

The bend came up too suddenly, the tilt of the water throwing him off-balance. He staggered sideways, glancing off the rough edge of the tunnel as it abruptly narrowed. Not waiting to check over his shoulder again, he set himself against the current once more, and pushed harder through the water, towards the rush of air and noise just ahead. It was deep around his legs now, foaming.

Just beyond the bend, the copper piping ended abruptly, the twisted metal of their open ends evidence of some sort of fatal rupture. They were empty too, clearly cut off from whatever they’d been channelling.

Disappointing. He’d been hoping they’d lead _out_.

A red mist hung in the air here, hazing through the tunnel, stinging his eyes. Blinking them shut, he flung a hand out to the wall to steady himself.

And met nothing.

The lack of resistance sent him pitching forward, the surprise of it forcing his eyes open once more as he struggled to keep his balance against the force of the water.

Oh.

He’d come to the end of the tunnel then. Or, the beginning of it, depending on where you stood.

And he stood right at its lip, teetering at the edge of a sheer cliff-face some hundreds of feet above an enormous, open cavern that sprawled before him, stretching off into the distance. Lifting a hand under his eyes, he shaded them from the heavy spray, squinting. That odd blue light blanketed the entire expanse, just enough for him to see below.

Below.

The red waves of an impossibly vast sea lapped against a bone white shore, dotted in places with bobbing, heaving blocks of hard-edged darkness. Strange, angular shapes. Were they red too? They were certainly floating.

He could make out bits of land, little islands of bare black rock ringed by that same white sand, though a crust of red gathered and swelled in their surrounding sea. The closest one was about the size of a small house, a single, tall spire of black stone marking it out from the rest. Further in the distance they were larger, bearing more of those spires - elaborate horns of stone that twisted upwards, thorny and wicked.

Occasional plumes of steam hissed from those islands, where bright spots of fire were being smothered by the encroaching waves, before rebelliously springing back to life elsewhere, and burning other bits of rock.

All things considered, it was a nice view, if a little bleak.

And directly beneath him, right at the foot of the cliff, the sea had gathered into a narrow channel that coursed _upwards_. The red torrent surged along the bare black stone of the cliff-face, towards the spot where he stood, curling over and angling to flow past his waist, and down the tunnel.

Interesting. He hadn’t known it could do that. And he was pretty sure that hadn’t been in the tutorial.

Tutorial? Whatever. Pushing a hand out, he tested the flow of the water. It broke against his palm, strong and furious. And bracingly cold.

It was certainly powerful, but it was also steady. It might support his weight. Was it possible to ….swim?... down a waterfall? It did sound exciting.

Or was it a water _-rise?_ Terminology was important.

Right as he lent over the edge a little, to test his weight against the rising cascade, something horrifically sharp latched onto the top of his leg, sinking tiny needles into the flesh of his right buttock.

The resulting high-pitched squeal had far more to do with the indignity of it, than the pain, though there was that too, and when moments later a second bundle of wet fur clawed its way up the other leg, he’d had more than enough. Batting at his assailants, he tipped backwards into the roar of water, hoping at least that his theory about the upwards flow allowing him to gently float downwards, riding it slowly to the bottom, would be a correct one.

It was not.

He plummeted through the torrent, limbs wide, flailing. Downwards. The water and air and noise streaming past, pressing, pulling him down, nothing to breathe, to see, only the sharp, drawn out panic that something below would eventually end it.

There was something highly familiar about the sensation. Headed downwards, gathering speed, downwards. Downwards.

Falling?

As he met the sea, and plunged deep beneath its waters, he revised that thought. That was nothing like anything he’d ever experienced, the terrifying weightlessness of his descent all too present. The choking, gasping fear, the complete loss of control. He’d definitely remember.

You just didn’t forget a fall like _that_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for @kb91, who left the following comment on Chloe's fall last chapter, "Forget cliffhanger ... you left us in the middle of a cliff dive!" 
> 
> I had just finished writing that last scene, and your comment about finding a hidden door into my hard drive seemed a little too real. Well done.


End file.
